Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 83542 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 418(@200wpm)___ 334(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83542 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 418(@200wpm)___ 334(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
“See? I’m never taken seriously, so why should I make the effort to be when it’s easier to be a fuckboy and get away with it?”
Lane’s face falls. “Wait, are you being serious?”
I sit up again and scoot to the edge of my bed until our knees are touching. “I completely understand that what I’m about to say will come across as a first-world problem, but believe me when I tell you, when people judge you on the way you look, it’s hard to live up to their first impression. When everyone wants you for your looks but you still end up alone, guess what that means? Your personality is the problem.”
“So you act out because you think it makes you more likable?”
No, I act out because if people want to hate me for being someone I’m not, they don’t really hate me, do they?
I can’t say that though. So I go for the easy target. “My dick is one of the things you like, isn’t it?”
“Nope. Not going to let you turn this into a joke.”
“It is a joke. Believe me. I can hear it in my own words. Wah, wah, wah, people hate me because I’m gorgeous, woe is me. But do you know how long it has taken for someone to ask me who I truly am deep down? From the moment I joined the juniors to exactly this moment. Right here. With you.”
NINE
LANE
For the rest of our time away, I’ve been subdued. Given Oskar a little more leash. Maybe I shouldn’t have. Maybe the whole conversation in our hotel room was fabricated, his way of manipulating me, and given how many times I’ve been manipulated in the past, you’d think I’d be able to pick it by now. But true or not, something has shifted.
I want to believe him, and doesn’t that make me the dumbest person alive?
But do you know how long it’s taken for someone to ask who I truly am?
I steeple my fingers and stare unseeing at the screen in front of me. If I thought I’d get more work done in the office while Oskar is safely at training, I was wrong. I’m as restless and distracted here as I was while we were traveling. Oskar was never supposed to be a person to me, just a job. A problem to fix. And now, unbeknown to him, he’s gone and poked at my soft spot by showing vulnerability, and my whole being is screaming at me to fix it.
Fix it. A problem that likely doesn’t exist.
Oskar plays people. It’s what he does. And even though it’s happened to me with men in the past, somehow, I’ve reached thirty-nine and still can’t see what’s right in front of my face.
I like to think I have my shit together, but if the familiar empathy swimming in my gut is any indication, I’m every bit as pathetic and easy to read as I’ve always been.
On the surface, his problems are ridiculous. Oh no, I’m too pretty. But somewhere along the way, he decided the person he is inside isn’t good enough and created this whole other persona. Someone loud and attention-seeking. Someone untouchable. Someone who doesn’t need people or to be taken seriously.
And maybe I’d call bullshit on all that, but … well, I’m uncomfortably aware that I haven’t exactly taken him seriously, myself.
I push away from my desk and approach the floor-to-ceiling window that overlooks the park across the street. The entire time I’ve been shadowing Oskar, I’ve either treated him like a child or swung in the complete opposite direction and took every chance I had to objectify him. Sure, he encouraged the behavior, but maybe that’s because he’s never learned to deal with it any other way.
I have a flash of Oskar ten years ago, building up unhealthy coping mechanisms to get attention from his peers. Jesus … with a laugh, I rub my rough jaw and acknowledge the fact I’m losing here. Oskar’s getting the better of me.
When Oskar was nothing more than a shameless playboy, I had no qualms treating him that way, but this shift, this acknowledgment that he’s human and hurting, has made my job so much harder. Either my hunch that he’s incredibly smart and playing me is correct, or I’m the first person Oskar has ever shown that side to, and I’m not sure what to think of that.
There’s a light knock on the door.
“Hey,” Keerson says. “I saw you were in today and thought I’d take you out for a charitable lunch.”
“Charitable?”
His voice is laced with amusement. “For your Voyjik sacrifice.”
This is the point where I’m supposed to point out that one lunch doesn’t start to cover it, but the words won’t come. “I have a question for you.”
Keerson looks surprised by the abrupt change of subject, but he walks in and leans against my desk anyway. “Shoot.”